Chapter 1: The Card at the Monarch

My wife is a sex addict.

But for my sake, she promised to get help, and honestly, she’d gotten a lot better.

Sometimes, even when I wanted to be close to her late at night, she’d smile and shake her head, worry creasing her brow.

"Babe, you’ve been working nonstop. You should really get some sleep."

It always made my chest ache with gratitude—thinking she cared so much, believing that love could fix anything.

Until the night on my business trip, when someone slipped a card with Hannah’s photo under my hotel door.

Nights like this, when the city buzz feels a thousand miles away, it’s easy to trust the little routines that make a marriage feel safe. Her gentle voice in the dark, her soft touch—those were the threads holding my world together. But sometimes, all it takes is a single crack, and everything comes apart.

1

I got back late from a business trip. Not wanting to wake Hannah—her insomnia’s brutal—I checked into a hotel instead.

I’d barely settled in when I heard a quiet flutter at the door.

Curious, I found a colorful card poking through the gap.

I rolled my eyes, thinking about the sleazy side of hotel life. The hallway reeked of stale carpet, and somewhere down the hall, an ice machine clattered.

But as I bent down, ready to complain to the front desk, I froze.

My eyes went wide. I rubbed them, not trusting what I saw.

The woman on the card looked exactly like my wife, Hannah.

Only she was naked, posed in a way that left nothing to the imagination, seductive enough to make my stomach twist.

The words were just as brazen:

"Lonely wife, secret midnight rendezvous—double the ultimate pleasure for mind and body."

Heat rushed to my face, a mix of shame and outrage burning through me.

My first instinct was that someone had stolen Hannah’s photo—photoshopped her onto this trash. The insult made my hands curl into fists.

To keep things discreet, I made a new account and added the contact info from the card.

Turned out, it wasn’t Hannah’s Messenger at all, and the name on the account wasn’t hers.

Relief washed over me, heavy as a wave.

I shook my head, feeling foolish for doubting her at all.

Hannah had worked so hard to change, just for me—how could I ever suspect her?

Annoyed with myself, I snapped a picture of the card and sent it to the agency, ready to give them a piece of my mind, when my phone rang.

It was my boss—work emergency. I dropped everything and opened my laptop.

By the time I was done, my phone was blowing up.

"Handsome, you have good taste! You picked our top girl, but she’s already booked tonight."

"Check out our other girls—guaranteed satisfaction!"

Photos of women flooded in.

I scoffed. Classic bait-and-switch—use someone who looks like Hannah to reel guys in, then upsell them on someone else.

I started to type a scathing reply. But my hand froze over the screen.

My heart was pounding, and I could barely breathe. My world tilted.